


Every Night

by 60sbeatlemania



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Canon, F/M, M/M, McLennon, McLennon in Paris, Time Travel, hints of alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-20 19:39:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13724604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/60sbeatlemania/pseuds/60sbeatlemania
Summary: Time travel didn’t exist, did it?It was 1998, and Paul had an interview in New York. The meeting didn’t differ to any other interview he’s had, until after, when he went to bed that night.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! Here’s the fic I’ve been working on for the past month. I’ve had this idea for a long time, and I finally decided to write it. It’s a bit different from my past work, but I hope you guys think it’s better! 
> 
> I named it “Every Night” based on Paul’s song. The lyrics kind of go with the whole story, which you’ll understand when I (hopefully) finish this fic. 
> 
> I’d like to dedicate this fic to Gio, who motivated me to continue writing this story after I showed her my draft. Without her, I probably wouldn’t have written more.
> 
> As always, please leave comments! I love hearing what you guys think :)

Even though it was a given, the New York City traffic proved to be unbearable. At one point in time, there might have been lanes drawn on the roads, but they seemed to have vanished; or drivers just learned to ignore them. Cars moved a foot at most in the past 25 minutes—well, at least Paul’s car did. Some drivers were reckless, to say the least. And maybe it’s just a habit they accumulate, not giving a damn about anyone else on the road. Everyone just wanted to arrive at their destination as quickly as possible. The city that never sleeps evidently never stopped for anyone. Paul’s driver was a bit more a modest driver than most of the cars stuck in traffic, and Paul had a feeling it was because he did not want to harm a former Beatle or himself. Not that the artist had a problem with that, it was certainly reassuring that his driver cared more about their safety, than getting to the hotel faster.

The windows were fogged up due to the heat being cranked high in the car, another thing Paul internally thanked the driver for. January in northeast United States was rough. Most things were frozen over, including ponds and roads. Even with the biting temperatures, New York City never stopped moving. Although he’s been on the road for decades, Paul never got used to sitting still in a vehicle while trying to get from one place to another. It wasn’t that he was impatient, it was rather he constantly needed to be busy. He didn’t like thinking—thinking too much, that is. It has always been a bad habit of his to overthink situations, and not once did it end well. It led him to see things in a different perspective, one that’s a little more difficult for him to venture. The last time he did that was when John died, and it was one of the worst experiences of his life.

It didn’t make sense for him to blame himself for John’s death, but he somehow found a way to do it. He overanalyzed his every action, every word he’d uttered that could’ve lead to his best friend’s murder. The last years of The Beatles weren’t exactly the most pleasant between him and John, which became a major factor as to why he’d always thought he contributed to what happened to his mate. Paul believed that if he hadn’t let the Beatles break up, John would’ve never lived in New York, and that Chapman bastard would’ve never shot him.

John. A friend, a partner, a loved one. It had been so painful to learn about his death. There never was a day Paul didn’t think about him, never a day his chest did not tighten because of how much it hurt. The guy had been such a huge part of Paul’s life. Even after the break up and amidst their issues, he never stopped caring for John. How could he, anyways? They had such a deep connection, and those weren’t easily forgotten of. Everyday, he’d think of John, longing to talk to him, but never having the courage to just pick up the phone and dial the number he knew so well. Oh how he regretted that now.

The thing about life is that you never know when the last time you’re going to see, speak to, or hold someone. That’s why the morning of December 9th felt so surreal; it was as if a fire died. Paul could still remember that exact moment vividly. Linda was out driving the kids to school when he received the call from his manager.

_“John’s been shot,” he said. “he’s dead, Paul.”_

A loud sob (or was it a scream?) escaped Paul’s lips. The phone was long forgotten on the floor. The line was dead. John was dead. There must’ve been a mistake? His knees grew weak; he needed to sit down before he fell. He needed to breathe, but all his knowledge on how to live simply left his being.

The fire that went out, it shouldn’t have. That fire was fueled by John and Paul. Their partnership, their feuds, their music. It was a fire fueled by anger and passion. A fire of war and peace. An undeniable spark that lingered between the musicians, that even with the many attempts to put it out with statements such as _“I despise you”_ and _“I don’t love you anymore,”_ the fire kept burning. Without one man or the other, the fire would die out. It was too early for it to turn to nothing but smoke, but somehow it did.

Sure, his mum died when he was fourteen. It had been alright to cry about it then. He was only a kid. He also had a brother that mourned the loss of a mother along with him. But now, he was all alone. He lost John, his partner, his other half. No one else knew John like he did, and no one understood Paul as well as him. This time, he was mourning alone, because no one would understand his pain; no one would understand like John.

Paul didn’t think he could possibly cry. He needed to be strong for the sake of his family. Plus, John couldn’t be dead. What a silly thing to say! John is only 40—that’s young. He couldn’t be dead.

Why John? Why him? Why couldn’t it have been somebody else? Though he had a feud going with John, it always kept him sane to know he was alive and well. He was so young, had a brilliant life ahead of him, that John. Those feelings of devastation and hatred when he thought about the man’s last moments on Earth was worse when he was in New York. Of course, it was worse. He knew he had to, but Paul had never been able to accept that John was gone. It was just too painful. So, sitting in a typical New York traffic, not able to do anything but sit and _think_ , was not what Paul needed.

* * *

Q Magazine contacted Paul’s agents a few weeks ago asking for a quick interview with him. At first, he was reluctant to accept the offer. Linda was very sick, and he wanted to be by her side as much as possible. As usual, Linda tried to convince Paul to do it. She wanted him to have a distraction from it all; she didn’t like Paul thinking about her illness every minute of the day. After lots of persuasion, they came up with a compromise: Linda will accompant him to New York. She’ll stay at their property in the Hamptons, while Paul will meet with the magazine people in the city.

Paul loved Linda deeply, and Linda loved Paul just as much. They’ve been through thick and thin; she stuck by Paul through the band’s break up, his struggle to coming back to the top as a solo artist, and everything in between. Many people predicted their marriage wouldn’t last, just like most of Hollywood’s marriages. It was a true wonder how they managed to stay together for many years—and very happy at that. But if you asked them, they’d tell you the key is love. Simple as that.

When John passed, Linda was there for Paul. Comforting and loving him. She knew that Paul loved John very much, in more levels than one.

John was an obviously open minded individual. He was unconventional, unorthodox, whatever word you wanted to use to describe such a unique soul. John was not a person to stop before he achieved his goal, the trait that was responsible for getting them to the top as a band. In his somewhat wild teenage years, John learned about sex and alcohol. He loved to experiment and try to win birds over, as any young man did. In school, John frequently got in trouble with his teachers for the simplest things—he’s got that reputation. Paul was warned not to hang out with _“that Lennon,”_ but unlike himself, he did not listen.

It is believed John was bisexual; though the term did not exist back in the 60s. People would have immediately called him a queer and turned against him. As one of John’s closest mates, Paul knew he wasn’t a queer, but he wasn’t strictly attracted to women. John’s free spirit allowed him to venture the possibilities with men. They were taught as children that queers were bad, but John was incredulous. He didn’t believe that two males or two females could not fall in love with each other. So, old enough to know what he wanted to try, but too young to go to prison, he turned to a friend: Stuart Sutcliffe. From what Paul remembered, John was very fond of Stu. The lad was enigmatic; a very cliche art student who wore eccentric clothes and had a mysterious aura. It was all too pretentious for Paul, but John liked Stu just fine.

John told Paul that Stuart was the first guy he made a move on. John and Stu hit it off quickly after meeting each other at art college. Sutcliffe was a quiet lad, but John’s humor helped him crawl out of his shell. The two hung out quite often outside of college, always at pubs or with Cynthia. One weekend, John came over Stu’s flat and was rather tipsy. His mind in a haze and curiosity-ridden libido out of hand, he kissed Stu. The encounter was brief, not by John’s choice, but because when Stuart realized what was happening, he hastily pushed John away and admonished him like a little boy. John seemed to snap out of it and sober up enough to become aware of what he’d done. John hurriedly apologized, rightfully reasoning that the alcohol controlled his actions, and that it will never happen again. He was being honest; he didn’t want Stuart like that, though he couldn’t deny he found the bloke attractive at times. Stu couldn’t help but still be upset by the occurrence, though he was nice enough to not say anything and just forget about it.

Sticking to what he told Stuart, John was careful not to do anything of the sort to Stu again. They maintained to be great friends, but there was an invisible barrier that the two built between themselves. It was all in good reason, and as long as it didn’t make either man uncomfortable (though that was the sole reason the wall was there), they never mentioned it. That was the gist of the story of John and Stu. Paul righteously swooped in and reminded John that Paul was his best mate.

Ever since that hot summer day in 1957, Paul and John barely forgot about each other’s existence. Something would always remind John of Paul, and Paul with John alike. Even a simple glass of water could remind John of the boy. When the younger lad was over Mendips one summer, they’d been situated in John’s uncomfortably humid room. Paul incessantly complained about the heat, so John dipped his fingertips into his glass of water and flicked his hand in front of Paul’s face, spraying water onto the unsuspecting teenager’s hot skin, and into his nose. The simple action progressed into a full on water fight—as good of a water fight with only two glasses of water can be, at least. John and Paul’s little goof off was abruptly cut off by Mimi’s piercing, strict voice, asking them what the distracting noise was all about. John and Paul snickered and began roughhousing, trying to keep quiet—which proved to be difficult when John kept tickling Paul. The two just got on so well, and having fun just came naturally whenever they were together.

Similar to Stuart’s situation, John made a move on Paul during one drunken night out. Both boys were quite pissed, so neither stopped it when John began to stroke Paul’s cheek and eventually closed the gap between their lips. At first, their lips were just firmly pressed against each other. Though after feeling how soft Paul’s lips were, John parted his lips and kissed Paul properly, to which the latter responded to fast. In no time, the lads were engaged in an unarguably heated kiss. Hands all over each other, tongues exploring each other’s mouths. After a few minutes of sloppy kissing, however, Paul sobered up and pulled away, then ran home.

In the next couple of days, John and Paul completely avoided each other, wanting to spare themselves with the awkward confrontation of what happened during that night. But unfortunately, it had to come sometime. The Quarrymen had their almost weekly band practice, and never had Paul missed a meeting. He didn’t think he should break that record just because of a stupid bloody kiss, which he didn’t start or was sober for. He entered Pete Shotton’s home and instantly locked eyes with John. Paul asked to talk to John outside, and even though the older bloke almost used a witty remark to excuse himself from Paul’s request, he knew they needed to talk about what happened someday. There were a few seconds of silence before Paul started speaking, cutting right to the chase and making it very clear he wasn’t queer, and he didn’t think John was either. Deciding to blame it on the alcohol, they cast the memory aside and moved on with their lives as if nothing happened.

Through the course of the years, the two got involved in several more situations similar to that drunken night, but it always stopped before anything escalated. Now, Paul wishes he could change that.

John’s death was something of a wake up call to Paul. He realized just how much he loved John, how he should’ve let John know that. There would have been major risks and consequences, had they been caught together, but it didn’t matter to Paul—at least in hindsight. Those moments he had shared with John were amazing. When their lips connected, it was as if they molded together perfectly, like they belonged together. If he thought about those times, Paul could still taste the cigarettes and bubblegum that lingered in John’s mouth. He could still feel John’s heat emanating from his cheeks in that close of a proximity; the heat that told Paul John’s cheeks were flushed just like his. He could still smell John’s hair when John went down to kiss and suck on his neck, which had felt heavenly. He could still see John’s swollen lips after he pulled away, mouthing something in the lines of _“I don’t know why I did that.”_

If Paul could change anything from the past, he would have absolutely done something about him and John. Those kisses had been great, but he needed more—John’s passing away made him realize that. When the news reached him, it was like he was veered to the other road at a fork. The road full of what if’s and I wish’s. The road that entails the story of what would have happened if Paul just gave in, if he just let his feelings control him instead of his morals. He often wandered that road in his head, wishing he could know how his life would have turned out had he gone that path. Before, when he had the chance to be with John, he was never certain enough to just choose him. Now, Paul knew he would take all the risks if it meant he got to be with John.

Amid a painful breakdown, Paul confessed to Linda the intimate moments that transpired between him and John. Being the lovely and open minded woman that she is, Linda was accepting of Paul’s confession. Paul was extremely grateful of her understanding, granted not a lot of people at the time would accept such love between two men. Her modern views on sexuality issues proved true. Paul was so distraught at the time, wanting to quit music and life altogether. Linda didn’t want her husband to throw his life away because of John’s death, so she did all she can to help him move on. She had a brilliant idea; even if it wasn’t the easiest thing to talk to Paul about his love for someone else other than his wife, Linda held an John Intervention of some sort. She tried to help Paul utilize the love he bore for John into writing songs about him, instead of becoming utterly depressed for the rest of his life. The Lennon/McCartney partnership’s strongest bond was music, and Linda didn’t doubt John would’ve wanted Paul to continue creating that art, even after his death.

* * *

At the hotel, Paul was accompanied by his secretary, Val, to the room he was told his interview was taking place. There was, surprisingly, only a small crowd of paparazzis waiting for Paul outside, who, even in their small number, were still as startling as dozens of them. Undoubtedly, they would increase by the time Paul’s interview is over. He was greeted by ecstatic people when he entered. Most of them were dressed casually, asking him about his trip, and if he needed anything. Paul answered the questions fired at him with composure, something he quickly learned in fame. One of them instructed Paul to sit on the couch by the hotel room’s balcony. Paul decided to look out the sliding doors before taking a seat on the red velvet sofa (which he would most likely be sat on for the next couple hours). The view was lovely; the city looked so peaceful from the 40th floor of the establishment. The busy New York streets weren’t visible unless he walked out into the terrace. The famous buildings that made up the city’s skyline were in perfect sight: the Chrysler building, the Empire State, and the World Trade Center looked undisturbed from the distance. He could see what John loved about it—everything was right there. Anything he needed, whether he needed to go clothes shopping or eat lunch, he could just walk out his Upper West Side flat, stroll a few blocks, and a boutique or restaurant would be there. He could be one of the people without having to stand out. He could roam the streets and hardly be bothered, because everyone minded their own business.

The Big Apple was a very sharp contrast to Paul’s Scotland farm. In the city, it was peace under chaos, and chaos under peace in the farm. It all depended on the person, and which lifestyle appeared to be more favorable. Deep down, Paul always knew John would end up living in the city, where he’d live a busy bohemian life and no one would bother him. Paul, however, wanted a simple rural life with a wife and kids.

Paul effortlessly fell into a pensive mood, but was quickly cut off by a nervous young woman who asked him to take his seat as soon as he’s ready. Wanting to get this over with, Paul went to sit on the couch and took a sip from the tea he was apparently fixed.

The interviewer was a man who looked to be in his late thirties. Clean cut and shaved, he wore a simple but nice black suit. He introduced himself as John Smith, which was as crazy as a coincidence can be. John had the right amount of professionalism in him, knowing when it was alright to add a bit of humor in the conversation and when to be serious. Their meeting was quite pleasant—certainly much more pleasant than other interviews Paul has had in the past. Some “professionals” just never knew when they crossed the line. Fortunately, Mr. Smith was very proper and sensible.

“Now, if you don’t mind, for the last segment of this interview, I will ask you some questions sent to us by our readers.” John said. Paul just nodded, signaling he was ready.

The idea of letting readers send in questions was clever. It gave the opportunity for new insightful questions instead of the repetitive _“is there going to be a Beatles reunion?”_ or _“what was your reaction when you received the news of John’s death?”_ The questions readers had were more creative, per se. They weren’t media-based, trying to get the latest gossip, or trying to manipulate Paul’s words into a scandalous headline—they were genuinely interested. Paul wasn’t bothered by the segment; he could even say he enjoyed it a little bit. Everything went exceptionally smooth, and Paul even got a little bold with his answers. There was one question that caught him off guard. His answer could’ve been taken in two very different ways.

“If John Lennon could come back for a day, how would you spend it with him?” John asked.

“In bed.” Paul answered.

* * *

Paul was asked several more questions, then a series of thanks and goodbyes were exchanged as Paul left. The magazine team was immensely grateful for the opportunity of interviewing Paul, and gave him a small present. He was just outside the hotel room when his assistant spoke to him.

“Paul, the snow storm is very bad at the moment. The weather report says it’s not going to stop until tomorrow morning. We think it’s best for us to stay in the hotel tonight,” she said. “Linda already called, said she saw the weather report too. She agreed it’s a good idea for you to stay in the city until the roads are safe.”

“Alright. Are the hotel rooms taken care of?”

“Yes, I’ll bring you to your floor,” she handed him his room key.

“Thank you so much, Val. Take the rest of the night off, I’ll be all set” Paul gave her a smile. He truly was grateful of Val. She understood her job and was very conscious of overstepping his privacy. She reminded him of Freda, who was an outstanding assistant to Brian Epstein and a lovely friend to the boys during the Beatlemania.

They headed to the elevator, which was fortunately empty—no paparazzis following Paul to his room. In the elevator, Paul conversed with Val, asking her how her family was doing and such. When the bell dinged, signaling they were on the destined floor, Paul quickly bid a goodbye to his assistant and headed to the room he was given. Room 909, it was. Instantly, he recalled a particular song, a particular person, and it was almost as if that very soul haunted him in the city.

Paul entered the room, took off his coat, and sat on the full bed. He briefly remembered the gift bag the magazine people gave him, but he did not feel like looking inside yet. _It's probably only some promotional merchandise crap, anyways,_ he thought. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he looked around the space. It was no different to the other hotels he’s stayed at, and there had been a lot. The same off-white walls, wooden desk, mini bar, and television. Similar to the room he was interviewed in, there was a balcony that showed off the beautiful city at night; the snow falling down heavily from the sky just made the whole scene more animated-like.

Paul took off his shoes and entered the bathroom, discarding the rest of his clothing as he did so. He folded his shirts and trousers neatly before placing them on the elongated sink, wanting his only outfit to stay as wrinkle-free as possible. He turned on the shower and instantly hummed a tune without so much as thinking about it as he waited for the water to warm up. The fact that there’s always a song playing in his head amused him for some bizarre reason.

It had been a rather uneventful day for Paul, save the interview. He was traveling for the most part, and the excessive amount of time spent in a cramped vehicle seemed to leave him sore and drained.

A few moments later, he was in the shower, automatically relaxing under the warm water. Paul felt his muscles unwind and the tension leave him as the water cascaded his body. He washed himself, making sure he was as clean as possible. The pollution of the city got to him, though he was barely exposed to the streets of New York. It might’ve been that he was spoiled with the clean, fresh air back in Scotland. (But it was not as if taking care of his farm animals was so glamorous either.) The shower gave Paul time to think through his day, and he remembered that he needed to call Linda before going to bed. Doing the interview put him back on the mindset of being a celebrity. In the past few years, he’d been active in the media less and less to be with his wife and her battle with cancer.

Hearing the doctor reveal Linda’s illness broke Paul’s heart. He’d already lost a mother to cancer, he didn’t want to lose his wife to that too. The doctor’s prognosis was that Linda had a chance to survive, if she agreed to try out some experimental treatments. Of course, the couple immediately said yes to this, wanting to find a cure for the cancer.

The therapies took a huge toll on Linda. She became weak and grew thinner, but she fought through it, for her children and husband. Daily activities that was once done with little to no difficulty turned into draining tasks, so Paul decided to take a small break from his work and help Linda with the household responsibilities. They could have easily hired help, but Paul wanted to be with his wife. Paul had also been thinking of staying away from the media anyways, so it worked out fine. The love never faded out in their marriage, and in sickness and in health, they stuck by each other.

Paul got out of the shower after about half an hour of standing there, going over his thoughts. Since he had no change of clothes, he wore his under shirt and boxers to bed. He checked the clock, seeing that it was only half past nine, he called Linda and talked to her for a while. Being separated after spending every day together for years felt strange—it left Paul feeling empty. Whenever Paul went places, he’d always been with someone. Whether it’d have been his band mates, his family, or Linda, he was never really alone in a hotel room, at some place he didn’t call home. On the phone, Paul told Linda about his day, and he asked about hers in turn. She was very glad to hear his meeting with Q Magazine went well. Linda also mentioned she’d drive to the city next morning as soon as the roads were clear. She wanted to go see New York before going back to Scotland, missing the liveliness of Manhattan.

After a couple hours spent on the phone, Linda grew sleepy and eventually said goodnight. Paul gave Linda the number of the hotel room and told her to contact Val if ever she needed anything else.

Paul settled in his bed, which was surprisingly comfortable. It didn’t occur to him just how exhausted he was, and his body thanked the soft but firm mattress the hotel provided. He closed his eyes, heightening his hearing. Though the room was quiet, he could still hear the angry car horns of the city’s traffic. Before he fell asleep, though, he thought of John again. Most nights, Paul would think about him before going to bed, saying a simple “Night, John,” not really caring that the habit might’ve made him seem mental. Finally, his mind turned off and he slowly fell into a deep slumber.

* * *

The first thing his senses picked up were the soft sheets he laid on. The bed, though comfortable, squeaked as if in pain even to Paul’s lightest movements. It was obvious that the bed was old, but despite its audible defects, it completed the task of giving the lad a place to sleep in. Deciding to finally open his eyes, he looked around the room, spotting a few luggages that were familiar, though he could not remember bringing the worn out looking things with him to his hotel. To think about it, the room itself did not look right. There was one lonely window accompanied by thin, white curtains that were separated to let the sun light in. (Wasn’t there a balcony?) The wallpaper was somewhat of a lime green, but years of its existence caused a discoloration. (Weren’t the walls white?) In the corner opposite the bed, a small dresser, chipped and in need of some polishing, was topped by a tray that held a bottle of rum and a few glasses of coke. (But, he didn’t touch the mini fridge?) Evidently, there was a bucket for ice, though Paul doubted it still contained anything but water. The carpet was visibly stained and outdated. Clothes were on the floor. Leather everything—from trousers to jackets—laid on the ground. Paul was more than puzzled by the garments that were strewn carelessly. It wasn’t his size, it wasn’t his style, though he was reminded of the years way back when, when his wardrobe consisted of leather more than anything.

His senses began to warm up at last, and he realized that the shower was running. _Must be Linda,_ he thought. That explained the suitcases he couldn’t particularly remember. But still, a lot of things didn’t make sense—odd clothes, strange hotel room, even the overall ambiance of the place seemed... _wrong_. Wrong for the current year, at least. Wasn’t this supposed to be a five-star hotel anyways? Based on what he’s seen, it couldn’t even pass for a three-star hotel. Maybe his memory was fading, but he was certain that this was not his hotel room. Paul began to sit up, his head feeling woozy, a word that came naturally in his mind to describe his feeling. Must’ve been the rum and coke. Though, again, he did not recall drinking the night before. He felt that there was something up, and he was not sure what it was. He called Linda’s name, but he did not get an answer. The water kept running, so he just thought Linda didn’t hear him. He approached the nearby mirror, checking his appearance. After seeing his reflection, a loud gasp filled through the room. This can’t be...how could it be?

Suddenly, everything made sense. No, it did not make sense! Paul realized where he was, when it was, who was in the bathroom. He was not in New York, it was certainly not 1998, and Linda was definitely not the one occupying the bathroom. He looked at himself once again in the mirror. Oh, how young he appeared. The wrinkles in his face disappeared—well, it had not yet existed. His skin was so smooth, so young. His graying hair was instead a full head of dark brown hair styled in DA. Oh god, he hadn’t even gotten the well-known Beatle haircut yet! (However, he was meant to get it in a few days’ time.) Though it made sense, with what he realized a few moments ago, it still did not add up why he was in this point in time. Paris was decades ago. Paris was just an old memory. Paris was a trip with-

He was way too deep in thought to hear the shower stop running or hear the bathroom door opening. A young bloke emerged, only a towel wrapped around his waist. The steam from the hot shower taken followed the man as he left the bathroom, and diffused into the bedroom. Water was dripping from his hair and onto his skin, though he did not seem to mind. He bent down to pick up a few articles of clothing from the floor and began to dress himself. Finally, he decided to look at his mate—the one he asked to hitchhike with him to Spain—but ultimately ended up wanting to stay in Paris—and started to speak.

“Early morning and yer already ogling at yerself, Macca. What a narcissist, you are.”

His voice. Though it didn’t change much over the course of the years, there was still something in the raspy, deep voice that resembled a younger version of himself. A voice that was yet to develop a small strain from years of non stop touring around the world, a voice that no longer needed to ask his bandmates, _“Where are we going boys?”_ as they have already reached the toppermost of the poppermost. Paul missed that voice. It belonged to his best mate. It belonged to the man he loved deeply. It belonged to John.

A million thoughts ran through his head the moment he processed what was happening. John talked to him. John is talking to him.

John is alive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Here’s a little chapter to make the story a bit more understandable. I was fortunate enough to be on break, therefore I had time to write the second part of this story. However, I’m gonna be back in school, and it’s going to be hectic, so the next chapters won’t be published as quickly. In the meantime, I hope you like this chapter. I had a lot of fun writing it, in all honesty. And I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> This chapter is not beta-d, so all mistakes are mine. I’ll probably be editing bits and pieces if I have the time. 
> 
> Side note: In some places in the world, it’s already George’s 75th birthday, so I just wanted to wish that legend a happy birthday. 
> 
> Happy birthday Harrison! You’re greatly missed.

It was 1961. They were in Paris, after deciding to just stay put instead of hitchhiking all the way to Spain. John received a hundred pounds from his rich relatives for his twenty-first birthday, so he asked Paul to go with him on a holiday. Not Stu, not Cynthia, but Paul. He was quite happy to find himself back in this moment in time. But this was so wrong. The Paris trip was so long ago, a mere, but cherished, memory. It is supposed to be 1998. Well, it _was_ supposed to be 1998. Wasn’t it ironic that he was referring to the current year as past, and 1961 as present? As far as Paul knew, time traveling didn’t exist; it wasn’t possible. How come he was back here? Was it a dream? A wish?

He had so many questions, none he could give a practical answer to. If it was a dream, it felt so real—way too real. Paul felt the mild hangover he had from the rum and coke so clearly, he could smell John’s soap from where he was standing. If it was a dream, he would’ve never known he still remembered what John smelled like in Paris.

They always said to look for a clock to check if you’re dreaming, because there’s never one in a dream. So, Paul looked around, silently wishing he’d see a clock, and this was reality. He halted to a stop when he saw a round device on the wall. It was 9:09 in the morning—this was real.

That crosses off the possibility of this being a dream, at least to Paul. Well, maybe that clock theory was fake. Paul found it easier to doubt himself, because he couldn’t comprehend how this would be real, anyways, though he had a gut feeling he was really there—in Paris, in 1961, with his John. But before he decided it was all genuine, he thought of other reasons why this could be happening.

Did Paul wish for this to happen? He didn’t think so. He didn’t believe in guardian angels or genies or tooth fairies, so there would really be no possibility he’d be caught wishing to one. Something was crawling up his mind, however. Something told him he needed to remember, whatever it was that was trying to be noticed. Slowly, pieces of the memory went into place.

_“If John Lennon could come back for a day, how would you spend it with him?”_

_“In bed.”_

Yes, he had said that during his interview. No, he did not think it would come true. Who would? It was just a silly question he was asked, to which he gave a silly (but true) answer. To add on the obvious fact, John was dead. Him coming back from the afterlife was unrealistic, to say the least. But this was much more than that. Not only is John back, it’s also thirty-seven years back in time. They were back in Paris. Paul couldn’t believe it. How could he believe it?

He was still staring at the clock, his mouth slightly ajar. Thoughts were still racing through his head, his heart now copying the action. What was to happen next? Will he have to relive the past thirty-seven years again? Then, a firm grip on his shoulder made him jump back to reality. (Was it real?)

“Paul, are you alright? Why are you acting so daft this morning?”

Paul couldn’t help but stare at his friend. It’s been so long since he saw that face, since he felt that comforting presence near him. He looked so young, just like Paul did. Somehow it felt wrong, because Paul was 55. And yet, his physical body was of a 19 year old’s, and John’s was of a 21 year old. The last time he spent time with John, they’d both been in their late thirties. This felt so wrong.

Wrong. A word Paul has used more than enough for one morning. He couldn’t help it. Everything was a mess, yet so orderly at the same time. In the life he had before this morning, Paul would always think of John—every night before he went to bed. He missed the lad, and now he was back with him. No Yoko, no Linda, no kids. They were free; Paris was the most freedom they ever had. They didn’t know anyone, and no one knew them. John and Paul could’ve done the craziest things and not one soul would tell their parents. They were isolated, could never be interrupted by their mates—their mates who were back in Liverpool, doing god knows what. They were here, John and Paul. John and Paul in Paris, and only them. They didn’t have to hide here. They could do the naughtiest things and nobody would interfere. That was the single most important thing that made the Paris trip so wonderful. Back in England, they already had their own little bubble. But in Paris, that bubble formed into an enclosed wall surrounding the two boys, and no one can just easily pop it now. That wall was specifically built to isolate themselves from the rest of the world, as if in their own planet. So even though everything felt so wrong, it felt so right.

“Johnny”

“Paulie”

“I can’t believe it.”

“You can’t believe wh-“

He hugged John. Hugged him so tightly that it seemed as if he never wanted to let go—and he didn’t. It had been so long, _too long_ , since he last embraced John. Being in contact with the long lost friend gave Paul so much sanity he didn’t know he longed for. He didn’t care that John was still wet from his shower. He didn’t care that it seemed so strange for him to hug John like this, like he hasn’t hugged him in years, because John didn’t know what just happened. That Paul somehow came back in time, a time when John and him were still together, from a time when they couldn’t have been more separated by fate. The smell of John’s aftershave filled Paul’s senses, and he buried his nose in John’s neck, not giving a damn about anything. He needed this. He needed to take in as much John Lennon he can get, before he was taken away again, before he wakes up from this unexplainable dream and live on without John.

John chuckled at Paul’s actions and hugged him back.

“I smell good, I know. This hotel’s got really nice smelling soap.” Paul only hugged him tighter.

After a few more moments in a long overdue embrace, Paul let go, albeit reluctantly.

“What’s up with you, Macca?”

“I just missed you, ‘s all.”

“Aw, you soft git. I was only in the shower for a moment.”

“I know.”

Paul continued to stare at John, with that longing look that went together with that longing feeling he had. John was really here. That hug they shared was definitely real. He’d be damned if it wasn’t real.

John pulled one of his signature silly faces after Paul stared at him for way too long. He felt strange, but only because _Paul_ was acting strange. They’d been in Paris for a few days now, and he could think of nothing that might’ve caused his friend to act bizarrely.

“Have I got something on me face?”

“No, John.”

“Then why don’t you stop staring at me, then? I’ll take a photograph of meself and give it to you if you want.”

Paul shoved John away playfully and gave the man a grin. He did miss that wit of his. Paul figured he should probably stop looking at John intently. If he was really back in Paris, he’d have to start acting the way he did 37 years ago. And 37 years ago, he was a teenager—a spontaneous young lad who didn’t know any better. That was a completely different person from who he is now. Adulthood turned Paul into an experienced man, who thought over all his decisions—big or small—to make sure he was doing the right thing.

“You all set with the bathroom then?” Paul asked. John gave him a quick nod and continued to dress himself. The younger Liverpudlian entered the bathroom and locked the door behind him, even if there was probably no need for it. He sat down on the toilet and took deep breaths. It hadn’t occurred to him until then that the people involved in his life in 1998 may have been affected of his transport, too. Sure, he’d come to terms with the fact that somehow he woke up to be in Paris 1961. But what did it mean? Were Linda and the kids still in 1998, wondering where Paul went? Or did Linda come back in time as well, and about to marry Joseph? If that was the case, did she remember Paul? His head began to pound; it was all too much. And even though he probably should make the most of this day, given it might be the only time he’ll be with John again, he couldn’t stop but worry about the life he left. He wished everything was fine back in 1998.

Paul’s fatigue got even worse after futile attempts of calming down, so he took a quick shower to see if it’d get rid of the queasiness he felt. It helped a bit, but it may have just been that it cured the hangover he had. His stomach was still tied in knots, however, and suddenly he began to feel claustrophobic in the small bathroom, sectioned off in the already considerably tiny hotel room. Paul turned the shower off and dried himself as fast as he could, so he can finally leave the tiny loo and get some more space.

To John’s poor eyesight, Paul could’ve easily appeared as a ghost exiting the bathroom. Even though John didn’t have his glasses on, he could see Paul’s pale face that made him look lifeless. Paul had a towel around his waist, looking much like John after his shower. Another thing he noticed was that Paul was breathing—hard and shallow. His overall appearance was concerning. Earlier that morning, Paul had been acting off; and now, he looked five seconds away from having a full panic attack.

Paul remained stood right outside the bathroom door. His finger found its way between his lips and teeth, now suffering from an aggressive chewing. His eyes roamed the room, not looking for a particular object. From the years John’s known Paul, he knew this was a habit Paul had whenever he felt anxious. There was definitely something wrong with him, though John hadn’t a clue what it was.

“Paul? Paul.” It took John a few tries to get Paul to snap out of his little trance. He really began to worry for his friend.

Paul jumped, his finger leaving his mouth as he did so. His eyes found John’s, who’s own were squinting at Paul, obviously trying to look at him, but was unsuccessful due to his horrible vision.

“Listen here, son. There’s something screwing with your mind, we both know it. Might as well tell me because I won’t stop asking you about it until you stop acting weird.”

Paul knew John meant it, but how was he supposed to explain his thoughts to John right now? He’d probably ask Paul what kind of Parisian drug he’s got a hold of. Never in a million years would John take Paul seriously if he told John that he was from the future, that one day he just woke up and he was 19 years old again. Paul himself couldn’t even completely wrap his head around the concept, why would he think John could?

“I’m just feeling a bit grotty today. Woke up with a headache and I feel like I could throw up any minute really.” He decided he’d just make up an excuse. It wasn’t as if he was telling a lie, he was only telling half of the truth.

John held the back of his hand against Paul’s forehead, checking to see if the lad had a fever.

“Look, Paul. I don’t really know how hot you must feel to be able to tell if you have a fever. Don’t really know why I’m feeling your forehead at all. But tell you what, I’ll go to that French bakery across the street and get us some proper breakfast. Maybe it’ll help you feel better.”

“They only call it bakery here, y’know.”

“Oh sod off.”

Paul gave his friend a genuine smile. Not that it was rare, but it wasn’t everyday that John Lennon showed his soft side. The tough persona he strived to put up wasn’t easy to take down; he’s only ever affectionate to his closest friends and family. Paul was grateful he got to be one of those people John was comfortable enough to be sweet around. It made him feel that John loved him.

“Alrighty then. I’ll be right back with your tea, your highness.” John took an exaggerated bow before vacating the room, leaving Paul in chuckles.

The younger man took this time to roam the room. He looked for things that could remind him what exactly has happened in his life so far—going back 37 years ago didn’t exactly give him crystal clear memory of what occurred during 1961. With his aging brain, events that happened decades ago weren’t as sharp of a memory as it was years prior. He realized how difficult it would be to not say something strange, like asking John about Sean or living in New York. Paul had to start thinking from 19-year-old-Paul’s perspective. He still wasn’t sure how long he’d be staying in this year, didn’t know when he’d wake up to his 56 year old self. For now, Paul just had to be careful with his words.

In a weird way, Paul felt like a curious teenager again. However, this time, instead of looking for new experiences, he was looking for how little experience he had when he was nineteen, so as not to say anything wrong to John. Paul couldn’t even mention Brian Epstein to him! The Beatles still had a month before they met their manager, the man who would bring them their lifelong dream of fame. Maybe this time around, if he stayed long enough to re-meet Brian again, he could rearrange the financial deals between him and the band. He snickered at that thought; _like we need more money_. Well, maybe this time, he could save Brian from his unexpected death; maybe that way, he could save the band, too.

Paul decided to dig through his bag to see what his younger self brought to Paris. He found that they were just clothes for the most part, besides the occasional coins he saw and a bowler hat that was sat right next to his bag. Paul still had it in his Scotland home, the only difference was that the hat he was holding now was brand-new looking, instead of the felt being covered in dust. Memories flooded him as picked up the hat. He could still remember the photographs John and him took wearing the silly little thing. From what he remembered, John nicked it from a costume shop a couple months ago. It felt so surreal to think about the things John and Paul did before they became so famous.

On the desk sat a camera. Paul instantly remembered asking his brother Michael for it, and how he had to buy his younger brother a grand dinner from the chippy for him to allow Paul to bring his beloved camera to such a foreign place. Mike still had that camera in his house (the McCartneys are very sentimental people) and is still well taken care of, unlike the bowler hat.

Looking at all his belongings almost seemed like going down a very vivid memory lane. Every little thing reminded him of a story from way back when, and it felt so nice. John probably wouldn’t have appreciated Paul going through his bag, but the latter couldn’t resist. He opened John’s pack and saw crumpled clothes, as if they were just thrown in there while packing—which Paul didn’t doubt John did. He also found some folded pieces of paper and opened them, realizing they were song lyrics that John and Paul were working on based on the two different handwritings. He was about to dig through more of the older man’s stuff when he heard the door unlocking. He just had enough time to stand up and rush to sit on the bed before John saw him.

“Honey, I’m home!” John declared sarcastically. He held a brown bag and two cups of tea, one on top of the other. It was a wonder how John didn’t manage to spill the hot beverages on himself. He threw the bag at Paul and situated the cups on the nightstand in a more careful manner. Afterwards, he sat right next to Paul on the bed, taking a sip from his cup before fishing his food out of the bag.

“Ta, mate. I’m properly starving.” As if on cue, Paul’s stomach started growling. John let out a laugh at the comedic timing.

“s’alright Paulie. I got you some freshly baked bread and soup. Not really sure why they serve soup this early in the day, but I’m glad they do. Anyways, there’s some strange herb broth and some chicken soup, pick whichever you want.”

Paul snorted at that. Did John forget his friend was vegetarian? Then he remembered...

“I’ll take the strange herb broth. Thanks again.” Paul offered him a smile and started to dig in right away. He moaned at the goodness of the savory warm bread and the fantastic soup—which was finished just a couple minutes after the initial taste. He forgot how good food was in the 60s; the nearing end of the 20th century brought more popularity of instant-food. Of course him and Linda cooked their food most of the time, but some days they just didn’t have the energy to do so. He missed the freshly made French meals. Paul was eating so quickly, though he hadn’t noticed until John, who was only on his second bite, commented on it.

“Slow down there, Macca. You might actually make yourself sick by eating that fast.”

Paul just glared at him with a look John found so adorable. It might’ve intended to scare John off, but Paul just ended up looking cute with his chubby cheeks puffed out. The younger Scouse placed his empty bowl next to John’s on the nightstand, which remained untouched. Paul managed to get bread crumbs on his cheek, so John gestured to wipe it away with his thumb. The doe eyed lad automatically leaned into his touch before thinking, and let his eyes gaze at his friend. John, in turn, looked into Paul’s eyes as well. He really found his eyes beautiful; they were usually brown when he was happy, and green when he was stressed out or mad. There was no question that Paul’s eyes were windows to his soul, and John loved that about them. Without realizing, his right hand—which had been loosely balled up into a fist against Paul’s face, with his thumb stroking his cheekbone—unfolded, and was now completely cupping Paul’s left cheek. The younger man’s eyelashes fluttered as they shut close, leaving John to stare at his angelic face. A soft sigh escaped Paul’s lips, feeling utterly blissful at the moment. He just needed to feel John’s presence right now, and their current interaction provided for that need. The two continued to bask in the relaxing quietness until John broke the silence.

“You just made me spread the crumbs all over yer face instead of wiping it away.” John said, his voice sounding breathless, as if he’d just ran a mile and was just getting started to calm down.

Paul just smiled softly, and John felt the movement of his features against his palm. All John could think about was how smooth Paul’s skin was, and how he wanted to kiss him all over. He couldn’t do that, could he? Him and Paul have already been here before, been through the conversation about how they should never let anything like that happen between them again. But why was Paul letting John cup his face like like that now? It wouldn’t hurt to ask, would it?

“Paul?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You’re already asking me one right now.”

“Git.” Paul chuckled at that.

“Go on then.”

John was quiet for a few seconds, hand still against Paul’s cheek, before proceeding.

“If I said I wanted to kiss you, what would you say?”

Paul finally opened his eyes and stared at John. He’d been longing for him for so long, and finally it’s happening. He couldn’t even start to think of how thankful he was that he got this opportunity to be with John again—before the fame and the wives—in Paris. He’d be a stupid man to decline John now.

“I’d say you should do it.”

John almost didn’t hear Paul’s response from the loud beating of his heart. He did not know how Paul would react to his question, and his nerves quickly got ahold of him after his words slipped from his mouth. But once Paul’s answer hit him, he didn’t waste any more time. He took Paul’s chin between his forefingers gently, and slowly pulled him in. Their eyes didn’t close shut until the space between them did, too. The sensation of their lips against each other’s was wonderful; Paul’s mouth was so soft and plump and fit perfectly against John’s thin and strong ones. The latter felt butterflies in his stomach then, not that he’d ever admit to it. He had always craved Paul but never got the courage to act on it until that night at the pub. Their first kiss was sloppy, and he was intoxicated, so he couldn’t really remember how it was as much as he’d like, but he knew it had felt good. This time, he was going to make the most of the kiss.

In the beginning, they just engaged in short, tentative almost-peck kisses. However, after a minute or so, John pulled away—Paul even began to open his eyes—only to smash his lips roughly, desperately, against Paul’s. John finally held the younger’s face with both his hands to secure him in place, not letting him go just yet (after all, in John’s mind, they were just getting started). Paul made a small sound that resembled a moan, and kissed back with the same amount of passion. He wrapped his arms around John’s neck and pulled him impossibly closer. He could taste the tea from John’s lips, but it was so vague, and he needed more. He combed his left hand through John’s hair (which was still a bit damp from his shower) and tugged on it, eliciting a moan from the lad. Paul took advantage of the newly parted lips and slipped his tongue inside John’s mouth, the taste of tea much more evident now. John’s tongue met Paul’s, and their tongues danced around, fighting for dominance. Eventually, the younger man surrendered, and let John take over the kiss. It was John’s turn to explore Paul’s mouth now, and he ravished the warm and inviting mouth expertly. He massaged Paul’s tongue with his, successfully earning another deep moan from the lad. John and Paul continued to kiss heatedly before they had to pull away and catch their breaths. When it happened, John kissed Paul’s face all over, making him giggle, and pressed his forehead against Paul.

“God, Macca. I’d buy a bed made out of yer lips.” Paul laughed and gave John one final peck on the mouth. “Thank you.”

“What’re you thanking me for?”

“For letting me kiss you. I’ve always wanted to do that properly, you know. I wish you understood how much I wanted to taste you. I’m really happy you let me.”

The thing is, Paul did know. He understood how it felt to want someone and not know if they’ll reciprocate that desire. It felt amazing to finally have kissed John again. And in the midst of it all, some weight had been lifted off of Paul’s shoulders somehow. It almost felt like closure, though he didn’t understand why it felt like that.

“Oh yeah? How long?” Paul tested.

“Ever since the day I met you.”

Paul chuckled in disbelief. John couldn’t have been serious.

“John, are you alright? I was a little fat boy back then. You even called me the Humpty Dumpty.”

“That was a term of endearment, luv.”

“Of course it was.”

The two laughed lightly, then fell into a comfortable silence once again. What could only be heard were their currently steadying breathing and the light traffic outside. It sounded like New York, and Paul was again reminded of the fact that he still didn’t know why he was there, or how he could go back to the present (though he didn’t really want to). Like before, he started to slightly panic just thinking about his situation.

“Paul, do you feel better now? I thought maybe we could go see more of the city today.” The older lad inquired.

Paul didn’t want to disappoint John, but he didn’t feel he could really stomach going outside and getting more confused over to why he’s back in Paris. He had no other way to get out of sightseeing other than turning John down straightforwardly.

“I still feel like pure shite. I’m not really up for walking ‘round right now, but maybe later on love.”

“That’s alright with me. We can just stay in bed. Maybe snog a little more.” John winked.

“You bastard.” Paul punched his friend jokingly on his shoulder, laughing at the not-so-subtle suggestion he just gave.

So stay in bed, they did. Shortly after giving John another loving kiss, he cleared the bed of any food that might’ve laid forgotten after they started snogging. Meanwhile, John stood up to open the only window in their room, explaining that some fresh air would do Paul some good. The goings-on in the busy streets of Paris could be heard louder now, as well as the crisp, fresh air of October. Paul got under the sheets, feeling the chill after John opened the window, but he couldn’t deny that the fresh air helped him breathe better. John joined Paul in bed not long after, and immediately wrapped his arms around his friend. Paul moved along with John, so his head was laying on the older lad’s chest, and his right arm slung over John’s stomach. For a while, they just laid tangled with each other in quiet solace. The silences that occurred rather often between the two were always comfortable, and it felt good.

Conversation came naturally when it did, and Paul and John talked about anything and everything. Paul’s measured replies (he still had to be careful not to say anything off) worked well with John’s witty remarks, though sometimes Paul couldn’t help but join John in his silliness.

“How much sex do you think Queen Elizabeth gets?”

Paul had sat up to sip some of his now cold tea, and when he heard what John just said, he snorted, and the tea he’d been drinking went up his nose. The lad started to cough violently, feeling an intense burning sensation in his nose and throat.

“What the fuck, John? Why’d you even think about that?” Paul said hoarsely, still coughing, though much less now. He’d just noticed that John was rubbing his back lovingly the whole time, trying to help him calm down, which made him smile.

“Dunno, just wondering and all that. Shags must be royal.”

“Okay, why don’t we talk about something else, then? Something a bit less disturbing?”

“The Queen’s probably kinky-“

“John,”

“Probably likes to be tied to the bed with gold handcuffs-“

“John stop,”

“Then she probably loves being blindfolded with a silk handkerchief and a-“

This time, instead of trying to stop the scarring imagery John was describing by saying his name, Paul kissed John forcefully, successfully shutting him up. Paul only let the kiss linger for a few seconds, then pulled away, replacing his mouth with his hand.

“John Winston Lennon. If you say anything else about how you think the Queen’s saucy sex life is, I’m going to cut yer tongue off.” Paul threatened, trying to sound as stern as he could; however, he could feel John smiling against his palm. The older man then proceeded to open his mouth a little and stick out his tongue, licking Paul’s hand. The gesture effectively made Paul withdraw his hand from John’s lips.

“Ew, Lennon! You’re such a kid sometimes!” Paul proceeded to wipe his hand aggressively on John’s shirt.

“Aw, c’mon Macca. You know you love me.”

“Maybe I secretly hate you.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Hm,” He took the hand Paul’s was rubbing against his shirt to pull Paul closer and kiss him. Paul hummed in satisfaction when his lips met John’s, feeling instant pleasure to be near his love. And just like that, the two started making out passionately, again.

Paul was still in a somewhat sitting position, so he took advantage of this and straddled John’s lap. The man under tried to sit up whilst having the daylights snogged out of him by his best friend. His arms snaked around Paul, and he began to run his hands all over Paul back; he might’ve groped Paul’s rear in the process, and Paul might’ve let out an involuntary moan at the action. Paul’s hands were all over John as well—his left hand rubbed John’s chest, while his right tugged on John’s hair. The room was filled with moans, heavy breathing, and the typical sounds of people snogging. The electricity and desire between the two Liverpudlians was so strong, but neither man made a move to go further than kissing. So, they spent all morning and noon either talking, cuddling, or making out.

* * *

“What changed your mind then?”

“About what?” The two boys finished another heated make out session a half hour ago, and were now completely calmed down. Once again, they were a sea of entangled limbs in the French hotel’s full bed. Paul was drawing random circles on John’s chest, and John was playing with Paul’s soft, brown hair.

“About me kissin’ ya. Told me once before we shouldn’t let anything of that sort happen between us again.”

“You’d think I’m daft.”

“Try me.”

Paul tried to think of a way to explain his thoughts without sounding too strange. It wasn’t the easiest task, but he came up with something to say, just like he always did. After a few moments of silence, Paul spoke up.

“Have you ever felt like you should’ve done something a different way? Like if you had the chance to do something over again, you’d definitely change how you did it?”

“Maybe,”

Paul raised his head to look at John.

“Well, that’s me with you. I mean, I don’t want to feel that way when I think about what could have been between us. And yes, it might—no, it _will_ have consequences eventually, but I’d rather go through those than to never find out how it would feel like to kiss you and hold you,” Paul explained. “You probably think I’m some soft queer now, but I’m not, and neither are you. It’s just different, with the two of us, y’know? You and I have always had a unique bond. And it’s not like any other friendship. Not just like my friendship with George, or yours with Pete. We’ve got something entirely different. And I guess what I’m trying to say is that, I’d be okay with having to deal with criticism and harsh judgement if ever people find out about me and you, than to not ever know what it’s like to be yours.”

John just stared at Paul after hearing his brief speech. He needed time to let it all sink in, but deep down, he already knew how he felt about what Paul said—and it was good. Paul, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck. Sure, he’d thought about this exact scenario a hundred times, where he confessed his thoughts to John, but he’d never actually thought it would happen, given John was dead. For once, the silence between them carried tension, and he didn’t like it at all. So, he asked another question.

“Do you want me to be yours?” Paul looked hopefully at John. In the latter’s perspective, Paul looked so beautiful then. His expression had the elements of worry, nervousness, and hopefulness, and it was so endearing.

“You’re right. I do think you’re daft.”

For a second, Paul could practically hear his world crashing down. His biggest fear of rejection from John came, and he felt so foolish to think John would ever want him. But then John continued.

“Of course I want you to be mine. I can’t believe you even had to ask me that.”

If Paul was asked what the happiest moment of his life was right now, he would’ve definitely picked the moment John told him he wanted to be together. Maybe Paul would’ve felt bad about thinking that, given he was happily married and had children, but right now, he couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember anything else but John and him. He was allowed to feel that way, right? After all, he didn’t know when he’d return to his actual reality, where he was separated from John. He let himself savor how beautiful his life was currently—he deserved that.

But when was the bubble going to burst?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please leave comments! It really helps motivate me :)

**Author's Note:**

> Leave comments if you’d like! :)


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